- Feb 5, 2002
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Cody was seven years old when he decided what he wanted to do with his life. It was the summer of 2018, and he was watching the World Cup with his parents and younger brother at home on Vancouver Island. When he grew up, he told them, he wanted to play pro soccer.
Plenty of kids dream of becoming soccer stars but, in Cody’s case, the idea wasn’t entirely far-fetched. He was the best player on his local team, and he soon began training with the Vancouver Whitecaps’ youth academy, a pipeline to the pro leagues. He was effortlessly athletic—he earned his black belt in tae kwon do at age eight—and he was in the gifted program at school. Cody, whose name I changed to protect his privacy, had been diagnosed with ADHD, and his parents had detected other signs of neurodivergence: he organized his bathroom countertop fastidiously and couldn’t fall asleep unless his blanket was folded to his liking. But to his teachers and coaches, Cody presented as bright, mature and polite. “He was on a path to do so much more,” his mother, Alana, told me.
Then the pandemic hit. Soccer ceased. School and martial arts shifted online. Instead of bouncing between practices and classes, Cody was suddenly trapped at home. To combat his boredom, he played Xbox. One of his favourite video games was Fortnite, a multiplayer shooter that’s available on pretty much every gaming console, computer, tablet or smartphone. He was partial to the “battle royale” mode, in which he had to outlast up to 99 other players in a Hunger Games–style fight to the death.
Cody’s parents were uneasy with Fortnite’s violence—he was only nine, and the game was rated 13-plus—but its cartoonishness allayed their worries. The game looked less like a battlefield and more like a Pixar-produced acid trip. At the beginning of every round, Cody—or, more precisely, his avatar, a buff combatant wielding a comically oversized pickaxe—boarded a flying blue school bus. Then he’d skydive onto a vast, vibrant island dotted with whimsically named landmarks like Tomato Town and Wailing Woods.
Continued below.
macleans.ca
Plenty of kids dream of becoming soccer stars but, in Cody’s case, the idea wasn’t entirely far-fetched. He was the best player on his local team, and he soon began training with the Vancouver Whitecaps’ youth academy, a pipeline to the pro leagues. He was effortlessly athletic—he earned his black belt in tae kwon do at age eight—and he was in the gifted program at school. Cody, whose name I changed to protect his privacy, had been diagnosed with ADHD, and his parents had detected other signs of neurodivergence: he organized his bathroom countertop fastidiously and couldn’t fall asleep unless his blanket was folded to his liking. But to his teachers and coaches, Cody presented as bright, mature and polite. “He was on a path to do so much more,” his mother, Alana, told me.
Then the pandemic hit. Soccer ceased. School and martial arts shifted online. Instead of bouncing between practices and classes, Cody was suddenly trapped at home. To combat his boredom, he played Xbox. One of his favourite video games was Fortnite, a multiplayer shooter that’s available on pretty much every gaming console, computer, tablet or smartphone. He was partial to the “battle royale” mode, in which he had to outlast up to 99 other players in a Hunger Games–style fight to the death.
Cody’s parents were uneasy with Fortnite’s violence—he was only nine, and the game was rated 13-plus—but its cartoonishness allayed their worries. The game looked less like a battlefield and more like a Pixar-produced acid trip. At the beginning of every round, Cody—or, more precisely, his avatar, a buff combatant wielding a comically oversized pickaxe—boarded a flying blue school bus. Then he’d skydive onto a vast, vibrant island dotted with whimsically named landmarks like Tomato Town and Wailing Woods.
Continued below.
They lost their kids to Fortnite - Macleans.ca
A group of Canadian parents say their kids are so addicted to the video game Fortnite that they’ve stopped eating, sleeping and showering. Now these parents want to hold its tech-giant creator accountable.
